


Overheard at the Yard

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, POV Lestrade, Rimming, Voyeurism, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9775175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Lestrade requests a wrestling demonstration from Holmes & Watson.





	1. Hercules

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Extract from the Annals of the London Metropolitan Police Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949640) by [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne), [Miss_S_B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_S_B/pseuds/Miss_S_B). 
  * Inspired by [An Experiment in Weight and Strength](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666646) by [sans_patronymic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the unlawful union of the two works that inspired it. If you haven't, I would encourage you to read those. They're wonderful. 
> 
> For the LJ older not dead prompt: overheard at the yard & my LJ 1_million_words BINGO square: watching/voyeurism.

“Overheard at the Yard,” said Lestrade, by way of explanation.

He peered into his glass and decided that the whiskey contained therein was, in fact, the finest that had ever crossed his tongue.

Then he shot a knowing look at his companions.

“I overheard Hopkins telling Gregson that you had made good on your offer of a wrestling lesson, Mister Holmes.”

“Hopkins is an enthusiast,” said Holmes dryly. “He was quite appreciative of the instruction.”

“Instruction?” echoed Lestrade, making a show of pursing his lips, the better to savour the spirit lingering on his palate.

It wouldn’t do to gulp something that lovely, no, sir.

“A spot of gentlemanly sport,” said Watson.

“Yeah, about that, you see, I’m wondering just how much of it was gentlemanly and how much of it was sport, Doctor,” said Lestrade.

“Nothing untoward or injurious occurred, Inspector, of that you have my word,” said Watson, shifting in his armchair.

“Oh, I know, at least not while young Hopkins was here.” Lestrade let a smile curl his lips. “I questioned him about his encounter. He’s a clever one, that’s for sure. Still a bit green, perhaps, but there’s little doubt he’ll be a Yard legend one day. Of course, by then, Doctor, you and I and even Mister Antaeus here may be feeding the worms.”

At this, Holmes’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh, yes,” said Lestrade indignantly. “Even a poor copper like me can read a book. Or go to museum. Have to, in fact, as a curator myself. Keep abreast of trends and whatnot.”

Holmes smiled. “I’m certain that a viewing of your collection of crime curios is worth far more than the pittance you charge visitors. First-hand knowledge of the Von Herder air-gun alone exceeds the price of admission. No, you are mistaken, Inspector, my reaction is not towards you, or Hopkins and his future, or ours, quite frankly. I merely wish to point out that _I_ play the role of Hercules in our labours _a deux_.”

“You most certainly are _not_ Hercules!” cried Watson.

As the two men glared at each other, Lestrade took another swig.

Damn, that was good. Yes, the evening was shaping up to be a memorable one, even without a puzzling murder, bizarre theft, or high profile disappearance waiting in the wings.

“I’d like to view a demonstration myself,” he announced, getting to the point.

They stopped throwing invisible daggers at each other and looked at him.

“A seasoned Yarder such as yourself requires instruction in the art of self-defence?” scoffed Holmes.

“I thought details were your business, sir,” said Lestrade, his tone full of reproof. “I said demonstration, not instruction.”

Their expressions changed. Doctor Watson’s warmed. He chuckled and took a sip of his own drink while Mister Holmes’s visage cooled. He did not touch his tonic water.

“Or?” he asked pointedly.

Lestrade gave him a look that spoke volumes, specifically the fact that he was not a blackmailer, and if he were, he would have set his trap after the initial Baker Street wrestling exhibition, the one that had prompted a noise complaint to be lodged and young Hopkins to launch his ridiculous investigation. He shrugged.

“Or nothing. I drink your fine whiskey—“

“My fine whiskey,” interjected Watson.

“—enjoy your robust fire, swap a few stories, bid you both pleasant evening, brave the yellow fog, and shuffle back to my cosy den.”

He let them study him without comment. When Holmes’s gaze shifted to Watson, Lestrade hid his face in his glass. The gesture afforded them a scant bit of privacy for silent debate and him the added pleasure of breathing in the elixir’s heady aroma.

“You, uh, prefer to remain a spectator?” asked Watson when their wordless discussion had concluded.

“For the entire performance. Hopkins has his enthusiasms. I have mine. And you needn’t worry about setting a precedent. I shan’t be calling ‘round for an encore, although I might make a small mental wager as to the true Hercules between the two of you.” He raised his glass to Watson, who puffed his chest out and grinned.

“Right you are there, sir,” he said, raising his own glass. “To the wisdom of age.”

Holmes’s eyes flashed. “Invisible or not, you will lose your coins, Lestrade. Watson, see to Mrs. Hudson whilst I retrieve the mat and the draping from the lumber room.”

“Don’t forget the oil!” called Watson as he hurried out of the room.


	2. Antaeus

Lestrade assisted Holmes in moving most of the furniture to the edges of the room, and where possible, draping them with heavy cloth. Then they rolled out the mat.

Watson joined in when he returned, and the two men’s speed at arranging the arena—as well as the existence of the mat and drape themselves, which Watson admitted was a concession to Mrs. Hudson’s complaints about stains—led Lestrade to conclude that sparring of this kind might be a regular occurrence at 221B.

When Holmes and Watson disappeared into their respective bedrooms, Lestrade settled back into the guest armchair, now placed ring-side. He smiled at his glass, which had been surreptitiously refilled, and raised an eyebrow at the folded handkerchief which had been placed beside it, wondering which one of his hosts was responsible for _that_ gesture of hospitality.

The contest began as most do, with the two competitors, stripped to their drawers, circling and taunting each other.

“I played rugby, Holmes, a sport much more useful in this arena than boxing. As free as we are with Greco-Roman norms, your straight left is strictly prohibited.”

“Your rugby trophy has far more dust on it than my boxing certificate. Baristu—”

“Is as much your imagination’s composition as “The Dragon Waltz” and far less practical.”

Holmes’s nostrils flared. “Let’s forget the past, then, shall we?”

“Splendid. Strength, bulk, weight, the game is mine.”

“Bulk and weight, I concede, but stature is on my side as well as, with all due respect to our audience,” he bowed to Lestrade, “age.”

“Wisdom, Holmes.”

“Intelligence, Watson.”

“You can deduce all you want when you’re kissing the mat.”

“Perhaps. But I predict that even mental faculties will not be the deciding factor. Your heavy meal at Simpson’s tonight and the whiskey in your blood will be your downfall, my dear man.”

Lestrade smiled at Watson’s outraged expression and his impassioned response.

“You dare disparage a man’s drink!” he cried.

“I do!” answered Holmes with equal theatricality.

“Come and get me, scoundrel!”

“Gladly, blackguard!”

Though its true definition was unknown to Lestrade, what transpired next might have been something akin to a dragon’s waltz, for the two men were locked together, forming a two-headed, two-backed, four-legged mythical creature stumbling this way and that way across the room.

Fingers dug into muscles in ways and depths that would surely leave bruising before morning. Bodies twisted and turned and grunted, each man adjusting and readjusting his stance for better stability, but they remained intertwined and, surprisingly, upright.

As Lestrade watched, he was reminded of animals. Not predator and prey, no, but rather two of the same species waging war over a mate or a kill or a stretch of territory. Though Holmes and Watson differed in many ways, their faces bore the same intensity of expression and their movements, a mirrored quality.

Though Lestrade had been pleasantly surprised that they had agreed to his request and was enjoying every moment of the tussle, he found himself at loss as to his role at first. Should he cheer? Surely not, but he felt compelled to provide some encouragement. He experimented with an assortment of noises and mutterings and, based on the reactions of all involved, decided upon a soft ‘ho, ho,’ when one of them stumbled and a growl-like ‘ur, ur,’ when one of them pressed an advantage, with the occasional ‘oh’ and ‘just so’ for variety’s sake.

It seemed to work just fine.

And they were handsome men. Lestrade appreciated their figures, the parts bared and the parts covered but not concealed by thin undergarments. He appreciated their flexed muscles, their bone and fat—more of the latter on Watson’s frame than Holmes, of course—, the hair on their chests—surprisingly more on Holmes’s torso than Watson—and the nice bulge on both, judging by the outlines in taut flannel.

And they were _men_ , not boys. Men sweating like men, grunting like men, and no doubt, feeling the vintage aches and pleasures of men.

Lestrade liked that.

Yes, a splendid evening, it was, drinking and enjoying a bit of gentlemanly sport.

He sipped and sunk deeper into his chair.

And then Holmes faltered, and unlike earlier, he took a moment too long to recover.

Lestrade uncurled and leaned forward.

“Ho, ho,” he said.

Watson moved like lightning. He released Holmes, dipped, and then gripped him again much lower, and based on Holmes’s facial contortions, in a painful knot of sinewy arms.

And then—to Lestrade’s open-mouthed astonishment—Watson lifted Holmes bodily off the floor.

Perhaps it was the instinct of being launched into the air, Holmes’s arms first reached for the ceiling. He seemed to flail, then finally curled one leg around Watson while their other leg remained extended.

Lestrade was awed by the tableau, so awed that had the glass not been resting on the table beside him, the finest whiskey he’d ever tasted would have been spilled all over the front of his trousers.

They looked like gods.

And if he hadn’t remembered in that instant, he would’ve surely been reminded in the next when Watson cried out,

“I am Hercules!”

He grinned triumphantly at Lestrade, then a hand covered his face.

“Not for long,” growled Holmes.

Thumb to the eye?

Lestrade didn’t know but whatever type of gouging it was, it sent the pair crashing to the mat in a tumble of limbs and yelps of pain and protest.

“That is prohibited, Holmes!”

“But artistically accurate.”

“You could’ve blinded me, who cares about a sculpture?”

“You, say my cracked ribs.”

“Well, I won. You cheated.”

“You did _not_ win.”

“I did. I am Hercules.”

“Perhaps, but that does not mean that you won. I will demonstrate a true victory.”

“After a bit of a rest. But I warn you, you had better fetch your Captain Oregano eye patches, because I shan’t be as chivalrous the next time ‘round.”

Holmes snorted, then pushed himself to sitting and turned to look at Lestrade.

“What say you, Inspector? Another round?”

Lestrade cheered.


	3. The Wrestlers

“Folly,” said Holmes when his carafe of water was depleted.

Watson lowered his glass of whiskey. “Civilian,” he accused.

“I think even your fellow foul spirit enthusiast,” Holmes nodded towards Lestrade, “would advise switching your source of hydration, Watson.”

Lestrade made a non-committal noise. Though not wishing to offend Watson, he agreed with Holmes, if for no other reason than the shift in atmosphere, which seemed to warrant a bit of sobriety. There was something in the room, in the competitors, that had not been present in the earlier round. Whatever it was, it was evident in the two men’s expressions and their bodies and their tones and even, as fanciful as the thought was to Lestrade, dancing in the ether that separated them.

Watson set his glass on the mantelpiece, then retrieved one of two flasks of oil resting there. He poured oil in his palm, then splashed it across his chest, drawing his hand across his torso in a diagonal route from shoulder ridge to waist.

Holmes’s eyes followed the path of Watson’s hand and it seemed that his features—once again Lestrade’s mind turned to fancy—grew even more hawk-like.

“You will be distracted, Holmes.”

Watson repeated the application on the opposite side of his chest, but this time his hand lingered at his nipple, circling, then gently pinching the bud.

Well.

To be honest when performed on his own person, Lestrade had no strong affinity for that type of caress, but, damn if watching Watson, clearly aroused, wasn’t mesmerising. Lestrade suspected his expression mirrored that of Holmes’s rapt one.

Then Holmes woke, shaking his head as if to dispel the lust-fog.

“I am a visual creature, Watson. How could I not be when much, though not all, no, of observation relies on keen eyes, but you,” he approached Watson slowly, “are an acoustical and supremely tactile beast.”

Watson stood motionless as Holmes circled him, as close as two people could be without touching.

Holmes spoke in a low voice. “When I tell you, Watson, how I will bite you, scratch you, seize you, it is _you_ who is distracted.”

Watson closed his eyes.

Holmes was now directly behind him, leaning awkwardly so that the only part of him touching Watson was the tented bulge of his drawers, which he brushed against the flannel-covered cleft of Watson’s arse.

Well, well.

Suddenly, Lestrade remembered the glass in his hand. He cast an apologetic look at its contents and swallowed the last draughts in hasty and blasphemous succession. Then he set the glass on the table and grabbed the handkerchief, just in time to hear Holmes say,

“Yes, auditory and tactile. For example, if by some foolish notion, you agreed to my request to be allowed to apply oil to your back right now, after a few massaging strokes, you would be conceding defeat, baring your arse, and raising it in delightful invitation.”

Watson snorted. Holmes continued,

“But you won’t. Agree, that is. But when I pin you, when I press you to the floorboards beneath me, when you admit that to the victors go the spoils and that I am the victor, and that you, my dear man, are the spoils, then I will pour that oil down the mountain range of your spine, it will roll into your valley and fill your sweet well to overflowing; then I will mount you and claim my prize, again and again, until all you are able to hear is my voice and all you are able to feel is my cock plunged deep inside you.”

“Or something like that,” he added casually as he sauntered back to his original spot opposite Watson.

“Oh, you sod!” breathed Lestrade.

“Guilty,” said Holmes with a smirk.

Watson opened his eyes and fixed Holmes with a hard, angry stare, then without a word, he reached for the flask and set about oiling his chest, arms and shoulders.

Holmes mirrored him.

In Lestrade’s eyes, Watson’s motions bore a sensuality that Holmes’s more perfunctory ones lacked. Maybe it was his nature, maybe it was the whiskey, but he continued to toy with his nipples and rub two hands across his paunch back and forth in a hearty manner.

He stopped rubbing and raised an eyebrow, however, when Holmes set his flask on the floor and hooked his thumbs under the waist of his drawers.

Then with only a brief, silent consultation—with each other, they did not cast so much as a glance at Lestrade—the two men stripped themselves bare.

Nice pricks. Damn nice, so nice Lestrade was, for a moment, regretful that the glass beside him was empty. He needed a drink.

Oh, well.

Holmes and Watson began to slick their lower bodies. Once again, Watson’s lustful nature was on display, quite literally. Upon oiling his legs and buttocks, he took his prick in one shining hand and his sacs in the other and began to stroke and fondle himself.

Lestrade’s prick stirred in response, but his appreciation was longer-lived than Holmes’s who, upon finishing his own preparation, said,

“I must apologise, Lestrade,” Lestrade noted the dropping of title with amusement, “you were promised a sporting arena and athleticism and we have furnished you with a brothel _avec_ whore.”

And with that, Watson charged.

And once again, the dragon was waltzing.

But not for long.

Soon they were chest-to-chest in a savage embrace, pivoting clumsily as one. Holmes’s mouth clamped to the ridge of Watson’s shoulder. Watson threw his head back and cried out. They spun ‘round and ‘round. Holmes gave his own cry, then Watson twisted in his arms and bent dangerously low, perhaps thinking to hurl Holmes over his back onto the floor.

But Holmes’s height and reflexes prevented such a maneuver. He grabbed Watson, perhaps digging nails as well as finger pads into Watson’s skin based on Watson’s wincing, and clung on, despite all efforts to shrug or throw him.

And then, in a burst of strength and flexibility that Lestrade had to admire, Holmes began to writhe and rut and ride Watson—without either foot touching the mat.

And Lestrade would’ve bet a blind German’s air-gun that a cockhead was nuzzling a hole somewhere, for Watson gave a very suggestive gasp as he and Holmes toppled to the floor.

On the floor, they slipped. They slid. They rolled. They wriggled and crawled like a hard-shelled, spindle-legged sea creature along the shore.

Lestrade’s cock throbbed at the grunts and groans and bursts of profanity, at the scratches that decorated Holmes’s back and Watson’s yelps as teeth, no doubt, found their home in his flesh. He warmed at the sight of their cocks, as erect as his, bobbing, then smashing, then gliding against various body parts.

At one point, they were turned away from him, one atop the other, flat to the mat. Hands gripped buttocks, then spread cheeks, and Lestrade caught a glimpse of one, then two puckered holes and suddenly found himself very grateful for the handkerchief still gripped in his hand.

If it didn’t end soon, he would spend himself right here.

Then it happened.

One of Watson’s hands disappeared between them, then he was being flipped, landing face-first into the mat. He put one palm flat and tried to push up onto this knees, but Holmes had him.

He twisted Watson’s arm behind him at a horrible angle. He crouched upon Watson with the round ball of his shoulder digging into Watson’s back, square between his shoulder blades.

“Surrender!” he cried.

“No!”

They remained set in that quivering stone tableau for some time. Every time Watson squirmed, Holmes bore into him harder and tightened the torque on the captured arm.

As they faced away from him, Lestrade could not see their faces, but he heard their panting.

“Say it!”

“No!”

They went back and forth for some time, then Watson slumped.

“Say it,” urged Holmes. “To the victor, go the spoils.”

Watson sighed, then said, “You are the victor, I am the spoils.”

Holmes laughed wickedly and kicked over a flask. He released Watson’s arm, then leaned to dip his hand in the rivulet of oil flowing across the mat.

He resumed his crouched position and placed a hand between Watson’s legs. His fingers pushed forward cupping and squeezing Watson’s hanging sacs, then his hand shifted back and a thumb nestled between Watson’s cheeks.

Watson moaned. “Holmes.”

Holmes moaned. “Watson.

Back and forth, Holmes’s hand moved, caressing and teasing Watson. Their call-and-response moans continued.

Lestrade tore his eyes away from the scene and, looking down, flushed at the sight of his own hand moving atop the front of his trousers.

Then Holmes spoke.

“Yes, as foretold, that common spirit was your downfall, Watson.”

“It’s the best whiskey I’ve ever had, Holmes, and not in the least common. Why, it probably costs—“

“Precisely what I paid for it after you won our last tournament.” A pause and a wet noise like lips on a shoulder. “I have no taste for whiskey. Why the only way I would drink that filthy bilge-water would be if—“

Another pause.

“Oh, no, Holmes.”

“Oh, yes, Watson.”

“Holmes.”

“To the victor, go the spoils, Watson, and you are the spoils, why you said so yourself, and if I want to lap my victory toast from your sweet arsehole, then I’m entitled. Stay.”

“Holmes, wait! Lestrade!”

Holmes choked.

A moment of silence, then a wicked laugh.

“Oh, my dear Watson, how foolish, I didn’t even notice.”

“What?”

“He’s gone!”


	4. Overheard on the Stairs

Lestrade was not gone.

He was, in fact, on the stairs, leaning with his back against the wall, a handkerchief in one fist and his spit-slicked prick in the other, listening.

“Good ol’ Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Best of the Yard. Our demonstration possessed features of interest, did it not?”

“To be frank, Holmes, from the moment your drawered cock nudged my drawered arse until this one, I forgot all about him.”

Holmes chuckled. “I confess his presence slipped my mind as well towards the end. I suppose we, too, have our enthusiasms.”

“Damn right. Oh, Holmes. Must you?”

There was a decanting sound and then a splashing sound.

“Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “Cheers.”

Lestrade’s head rested against the wall. He closed his eyes and stroked himself to the music of Holmes’s noisy lapping and Watson’s open-mouthed huffing. Then Watson growled,

“Holmes! Stop your filthy-mouthed teasing and do it!”

“Do what? Put my prick in you, mount you, ride you? You think that you’re truly ready for me?”

“Of course, I’m ready for you, you bastard, you’ve been playing with me for a short eternity—oh, God!”

“Maybe a just little more readying.”

Watson whined.

For a few moments, Lestrade heard only heavy breathing, then Holmes’s voice.

“Too bad that Lestrade can’t see you like this, wanton, needy, and open like a—”

“Lestrade’s no fool. He knows that between the two of us, you are the far more whorish sod—ow!”

A deep baritone moan, which Lestrade suspected was the victor’s, but could have, in fact, been the spoils', rang out.

“Oh, God, Watson, first time I’ve won in ages and it’s magnificent. You stretch so beautifully around me.” Another moan, then Holmes asked hoarsely, “Oh, why don’t I fuck you more often?”

Watson laughed. “Because you lose.”

Holmes snorted. “Aren’t you supposed to be pressed to the floorboards?”

There was a thud, then no more banter, just mewling and grunting.

Lestrade bit his lip and sped up his stroking. By the time Holmes’s grunts had reached their crescendo, he was already mopping himself up with the handkerchief. He then began to set his clothes to rights, but stopped when he heard them.

“Holmes.”

“Come here, Watson.”

Watson’s voice was a strained plea, unusual for him, perhaps, but unremarkable for a man in his current position and condition, but Holmes’s voice? It was barely recognisable. Lestrade had never heard him so gentle, not even with the most hapless and sympathetic of crime victims.

“I need you, Holmes, I love you, I can’t imagine my life without you, I—“

“Oh, Watson, we don’t do it like this very often because you become so—and then I become so—and then we are of no use to anyone.”

“I’m still so hard, Holmes. Would you please—?”

“Watson, you must truly be addled if you think I’d deny you anything at this point. What’s your desire?”

“I want your mouth on me, sucking me.”

“Of course.”

“But I am, well, quite sebaceous.”

“I’ll swallow you like a sardine.”

“Holmes, sardine’s not very flattering.”

“A _monstrous_ sardine.”

Watson giggled in a manner that might have, in another time and place, charmed Lestrade.

“I adore you, Holmes, heart and soul, you are sun and moon, Hercules and the other one and—“

Wet noises.

The kind of wet noises that Lestrade knew mean lips were touching lips and might be touching lips for perhaps quite a while.

Time to go, then.

He smiled and once more looking every bit the ‘Best of the Yard,’ if he did say so himself, made his way silently down the remaining stairs, reminding himself to purchase a pair of new handkerchiefs in the morning and have them sent ‘round.

He turned at the door, tipped his hat to the men upstairs, then plunged into the yellow fog.

He wasn’t a bit tired, maybe he’d return to the Yard and work a bit on the new exhibit about the Belgravia Burglar. Even at this late hour, there might be a few officers about.

And who knew what he might overhear?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
